Who Is To Blame?
by G-dot
Summary: Cardinal Caterina Sforza is known to be the Woman of Steel, partly because she's quite 'persistent' at times. When she decides the fate of two of her AX Agents, what would they think of her interference in the end? Tres/Abel
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood.

Abel wrapped an arm around Sister Esther. The roof was going to collapse any second now. The only other thing to do is to go Crusnik but—Tres was busy firing at the last goons from Fleur du Mal NEO. These goons were a special case—they were vampires' toy things, zombies. Something that was dispensable and easily manipulated. They hungered for the fresh pulsating life that raced through the bodies of the three church members isolated in a corner. Tres was merely pulverizing them to help them stay deceased, unmoving and not a threat. There was rubble flying everywhere as the Gunmetal Hound rained bullets in the abandoned church. The living "scatter-brained idiot" was now commanded to do something—

"Father Abel Nightroad, requesting input in terminating undead civilians."

The Killing Doll was merely a few metres away from the brain-dead flesh-crazed zombies when Abel Nightroad, Vatican Papal State AX Agent Crusnik, secured Esther Blanchett to a safe corner of the now-nearly-rubble church –and stated audibly enough for Hercules Tres Iqus, Vatican Papal State AX Agent HC-IIIX Gunslinger, merely a meter away to hear over the gunfire, "Nanomachine Crusnik 02 forty percent limited performance—authorized." The rabid zombies seemed to be dumbfounded just a moment but returned to the Gunslinger and kept their eyeless sockets on the prized AX members.

It happened quickly after the walking corpses started moving. The AX Agent codenamed Crusnik was on the move—eyes no longer winter-blue but a shade redder than blood, fangs bared, and his right arm mimicking a mouth too awful for even a vampire to imagine, creating a vacuum for the blood of the Crusnik's victims. He slashed with an elegant force that seems to defy physics, each lovely wave of his scythe ripping several bodies to shreds all at once enabling them to walk no further. Bullets and scythe crashed through dead meat conducting the symphony orchestra with a deadly ballet to air its path as a massacre opera.

The Gunslinger took a brash step for any other normal Terran man to make—but he's not any other Terran male. He released both of his Jericho M13's magazines from their grips' cavities and reloaded within a fraction of a second—both of his spring-loaded clips launched a new magazine from their wrist drivers and filled the grip with a fresh batch of ammunition and engaged a new bullet ready to fire. Before the second passed, he shot two points each microsecond for the Jericho's to load—ricocheting to great angular distances and tight curbs. A normal Terran man could not have calculated at such a high-level in less than a second; or in a heated battle to ward of death— literally.

No one uttered a word throughout the bloody gore-scorched opera, except the scream that pierced through the last mementos of the church's magnificence. A few moments later the ruin of a church buried a mass of undead, leaving more for the forest to decompose.

Three people were at the side of the ruin: one standing—"Gunslinger to Iron Maiden, mission complete. Requesting medical transfer facilities for Sister Esther Blanchett"—one holding an unconscious Sister Blanchett—"Esther…"


	2. Breakdown: Part One

Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood and its characters.

Warning: This will develop into a TresxAbel fiction. You have been warned.

(**O0**—There are meanings for the words with this sign in the end of the chapter you've seen it.)

The ambulance came over fast. Abel boarded it with Esther. He sat silently, peering over her injuries with a weary look in his eyes—this is entirely his fault. Tres said that it would be too dangerous for her; and that there were _things _that the Vatican is there to figure out if they were real. The zombies couldn't have been more dead than alive; they were walking carcasses, too dumb and too brain-dead to know any better than to contain their bloodlust. The cyborg also reasoned that the mission was _only _intended for the two male AX Agents and 'the Cardinal would not approve with Sister Blanchett to join their (our) company'. He didn't listen and 'tricked' Tres into bringing Esther along.

"She's going to be alright." comforted the nurse, as if she could see his inner battering. He thought of the many women that he had met right then and there, imagining them in Esther's position. He fed his guilt even more. But, not even a shred of concern for the fully-capable priest the ambulance had already left behind.

* * *

Tres Iqus, Gunslinger, Gunmetal Hound owned by the Woman of Steel was gripping his Jericho M13s too tightly; in his case, it meant a "malfunction" had occurred. He could not escape the foreboding dread that the gathering rain clouds fathomed. Tres shouldn't have been bothered by the oppressing weather but—something was off.

"Gunslinger to _Iron Maiden_: requesting assistance for transport to the Palazzio Spada, Vatican City, Rome. Cardinal Caterina Sforza might be in jeopardy."

How come he didn't take care of the Cardinal first?

"_Iron Maiden_ to Gunslinger: request confirmed and sanctioned. Assistance will be there in Rome searching for the Cardinal and will make sure to care for Her Eminence. You will board 300 seconds from now. _Iron Maiden_, over and out."

There was a malfunction. Tres could sense it. That's exactly the problem—he should've known it, not sense it. There were three things that weren't deem fit for the cyborg's systematic unit functions that week. One was he forgot to take care of the Duchess of Milan. She was supposed to be top priority; he'd give up any mission to rescue her, and now—she was going to have an ill-fare because he failed to register the note he made earlier that week.

* * *

Tres Iqus was striding down the Vatican hallways surrounded by a beautiful plush garden on the outside, with twittering mockingbirds of the early spring to wig the air of a gallant placate to the outside world, and a lavish ornate wall decorated by an occasional portrait that leaned with philosophy as well as art. But, Tres simply didn't care for such, and ignored all of it. He was headed for the Cardinal's office in Palazzio Spada—and nothing, not even a five-meter brick wall could've stopped him.

With her cardinal red robes, she spun on her heels for the nth time, not minding her visitor's quite frightened gaze—maybe _she_ _was wigging out_. After all, even the Woman of Steel had weaknesses. Especially, when it was about matters that concerned her personal favorites. Her elderly guest had just given her news about a rumor spreading in the Vatican. She was thinking of something to say to Father William W. Wordsworth that didn't sound so brash and that it would not unnerve the Professor too much—not as much as the 'news' has riddled her brain. She would remain calm—after all, the news was an isolated case. Only William knew of the true facts behind everything. Right?

"Are you sure that 'that' happened?" Caterina Sforza, Duchess of Milan, Minister of Foreign Affairs asked the priest calmly. She would assess the situation as calmly as—aw, cow.

William could practically taste her unbridled shock and threatening sanity's brink in her voice.

"Yes. I am certain that it really happened between the two. But I have to say, I do not understand why he let him do 'that' to him."

Caterina took in every word like a lifeline. "But how could Tres just do that—I mean—he's not built for those things, right?" her voice as calm as it would go at this point.

Said Father should've, could've entered the room at that statement but hesitated. He grounded in on the potential information being belatedly given out. This wasn't regulatory—eavesdropping on the Cardinal herself. But, this was something that concerned him, something that is disconcerting the Cardinal. She won't say it to Tres person-to-person, so, he concluded to best listen closely as Cardinal Sforza had hysterics.

"Hearing ability up to 50 percent." Tres said several volumes lower than that of his normal speech pattern.

"Caterina, you know as well as I do that the Vatican makes sure to treat all—even Tres—like equals of any other. We did give him every man's _needs_ as close as possible not to interfere with his efficiency in missions?" Father Wordsworth said the last statement like it wasn't even a question. It was a fact. It was a fact that he experimented on Tres to upgrade him. He was a challenge to the Professor. To procure the last of the Killing Dolls as close as human as possible was a real invigorating work-exercise. It was also a fact that Tres looked like a handsome young man, in and out of Vatican robes—even without robes or clothes… Tres undeniably has a good body-shape—well-tanned, and lean but muscular.

He could've just said all the facts, but Professor could only smile sheepishly at his superior whose furrow knitted even further into confusion, shock, and worry all at the same time.

If she was any other female, she would've looked like a walking **O0**Moro-moro—but she was the Woman of Steel. Cardinal Sforza just looked like an ordinary stern woman who was thinking of something deep while turning on her heels every five steps. She was refined; "a more refined woman could not be found elsewhere", a thought that would grace you in her presence. This was precisely the reason why she paced gently in her office, as steadily as in a high crisis situation. She could handle this… She would handle this…

Father Wordsworth is an intelligent man but a clueless moron when it came to situations like this—with a woman who had never gone over the edge. He shouldn't have said, "You know, by _needs_, it doesn't mean he has an urge to do it, but—I don't know about the other one. _But_, there are systems in Tres that simulate a human reaction, as to a certain situation, a program wi—Caterina?"

The Duchess of Milan, Lady Caterina Sforza stopped dead in her tracks. She had handled assassins head-on, madmen trying to assassinate the pope—things bigger than what normal Terran men would accept responsibility to and what they would normally back away from the responsibility of—so, she can handle this. She can handle this. It's just two of her Agents—doing who-knows-what a week before. She can handle this.

She was slowly being reduced to a wreck—give her any time of the day to wake to this, but not as literally as jabbing the information down her throat in such a beautiful Vatican morning, just after her sleep. Two of her agents have been rumored to have slept together. Father Wordsworth had already dismissed the rumor as a hoax and there's no possible way that it was true. That was a half-lie, half-true campaign to get the nuns and priests to stop talking about it. William told Caterina about Tres' latest check-up—he said to her that there _had_ been semeniferous fluids found on the cyborg and inside his posterior cavity; there were also marks on the Doll's body that signed a 'good night'; there was also the sign of use to an appendage Tres really didn't use. This wasn't the type of news that hit her ears frequently in Palazzio Spada very early in the morning. Her office is like her personal sanctuary—it might be the office that lead the Department of Foreign Affairs' business of the world's leading power, but it made her feel her element more than any other room in the Vatican. She knew what she was doing when she entered this room. That was why this room was perfect for the news. The office of the Woman of Steel might be dead-center to the world's affairs, but it also was the most secure place Caterina held dear. No one entered without a real reason and everybody played deaf.

How would she tell Abel?

"Father William?"

"Yes?"

"Call in Father Abel Nightroad a week from now. My health might be held firmly in danger's hands by then."

"You look like your not functioning correctly right now." concern was laced in the sentence, but mildly.

Tres didn't do concern.

Father Tres Iqus entered the Cardinal's office in Palazzio Spada with both of his Jericho M13s held steady to fire in any direction.

"Tres!" both exclaimed but muddled by a—

"Cardinal Sforza, damage report. I've heard Father Wordsworth break a disturbance in the room concerning your well-being." Tres inquired.

"I… I… I will be fine," Caterina whisked. "in a week…" she trailed off, mumbling the last words to herself.

Surely Gunslinger would not eavesdrop on her? He just heard William's last comment, correct?

Tres couldn't sense Father Wordsworth's worry as he could practically hear the whirring of Caterina's wheels inside her forehead. Tres couldn't hear what he heard either. He just made a note to himself to be there next week. He did protection—the protection of the Duchess of Milan.

* * *

Author's notes:

Moro-moro—a kind of play in the Hispanic Era in the Philippines; it was kind of like a farce about the political issues between the Muslims and the Christians.

Sorry… in advance. This is my first fiction so… please be nice; only constructive criticism can build a good spirit out of any one. NO FLAMERS. It will result in a troll war—if someone's stupid enough to combat you, flamers.

* * *


	3. Breakdown: Part Two

Chapter Two: The Complete Breakdown of the Cardinal Sforza

Disclaimer: This is a fan fiction leaching off of the Trinity Blood Novel Volume Series… I do not own the series. They belong to their REAL creators. That much I know.  
Warning: I think I went insane in torturing poor Caterina in this chapter.

* * *

Father Tres Iqus mulled the facts over and over his head. He is a cyborg. He's not suppose to 'sense' information and a back-up of the reminder he made a week ago just pops up out of the circumstance. He was supposed to have a rigged system—flawless and self-sustaining without the need to double check on 'feeling the circumstance'. That's what normal Terran men do. "I am a machine." Tres assured himself, not quite certain why he needed to do that.

Needed?

Another odd conundrum. Tres had been watchful of himself since the 'encounter' with the Cardinal a week before. He's programmed not to _eavesdrop_ on the Cardinal, _ever_. He just disobeyed what was hot-wired into his systems. He was not supposed to throw around the Jericho's in the Palazzio Spada because it would not bode well for the Eminence's esteem on him. And the Cardinal wasn't really threatened. Nor in the brink of death. Why had he acted out of pure 'impulse'?

Impulse. He didn't have 'impulses'.

He's a killing machine—he was not supposed to make mistakes. The other week had been racked by unsurpassable mistakes that had the cyborg intrigued but not to just keep a blind eye to his systems' 'malfunctions'. He planned to observe for the whole week for any other mal in his routine and maintenance. Then, would he tell the Professor.

Perfect. He just had a 'malfunction'. Two for one—_forgetting_ the Cardinal and _feeling_ for the event in internal drives for a note dated a week ago.

_Enlisting several systems malfunctions in protocol:  
-Cardinal Caterina Sforza is not deemed full-priority in an event.  
__-World's largest handguns have been engaged in non-regulatory events for simulating combat mode.__  
-Eavesdropping on Cardinal Caterina Sforza  
Sidelining as effects of a theorized defect in systems unit function._

The Professor will have a most satiable challenge ahead, as Tres listed the obtained data concerning his 'malfunction'. But, for now, he must see the Cardinal sound.

* * *

If anything, the Cardinal wasn't sound at all. In minutes, she was to assign Abel a mission, but that wasn't the thing that was unsettling her. She was to get the _real_ facts on the rumored night from the horse's mouth himself. She's going to be sick. She was going to pry information from Abel. She had dreams for the last week of Abel being a white obedient horse that would tell her anything without regret just as long she had hay—she heard it from the horse's mouth several times that week, "I did do it, but it was an accident!" Then, she'll just wake up in the middle of the night, stewing underneath all the fabrics laid on her in the sleeping chambers. Talk about pun. If only it was that easy with Abel.

She knew the man had a past. But she was tempted to go get Kate buy something for her to lure Abel into saying the truth more _willingly_, if you care to put it that way. But that would be just silly. Even for Abel. Still...

While she thought of all the scenarios over, she still thought that was the easiest and less _humiliating_ way to coax Abel into spilling the beans. This was all up her conscience this week. The information she wanted from the priest was shaking her near to the core. But, how do you break to a long time friend, who has been a 900-year-old virgin all this time to keep a dead lover's promise and stayed by your side partly because of said promise, that he has been—as punks say it these days—laid?

In no time at all, Abel came rushing in with a tea that couldn't have been thicker than coagulated blood, and more rotting than any candy you'll find on earth that time in post-Armageddon. Normally, she would shrug it off—but not today. She veered her chair so as to put her chair's back to face Abel. She called for him to close the door and take a seat. It's time.

"Abel", her tone rash as her throat was tightening—she can't do this,"Did you—um—Tres—"

"Huh?" Abel croaked an unintelligible reply.

Caterina licked her lips.

"You had a mission with Father Tres, correct?" she thanked the Lord that her voice didn't crack. "Two weeks before?"

Abel could sense something was wrong. "Yes. What about it, ma'am?" Calling her as an official will help him assess the situation more on his side and approval.

He was correct; she was beginning to calm down, and take Abel more seriously but with firm. Then, she looked at him—her face turned blue, then, green— and thought she was ridding rocky road.

'I am going to be sick.'

"Caterina? Why? What happened two weeks ago, while we weren't here?" He asked sincerely, concern governing his features as he looked at the back of Her Eminence's stoic chair. Surely if an occurrence so unnerving for the Cardinal had been in the Vatican, they would have heard about it. Especially Tres.

Caterina wished with all her might that she was the chair at that specific moment in her life. She couldn't get mad at him because maybe, he didn't know? Aw, cow. She couldn't get mad because, of all her _favorite_ emotions to swing at her agents, she might had forgotten it along the nights she dreamt of Abel the Horse. Aw, the irony.

After moments of 'self-motivation', she drugged herself enough with lies to turn her chair. The lies bringing the queasy thoughts down the Cardinal's brain drain and more of her confidence showed.

"Cardinal Sforza, status report."

"I am well, Father Tres." She said turning back from them. She's going to be sick. Why of all places did Tres suddenly appear here, right now? She pursed her lips into a thin line. "Is Sister Esther alright, Father Abel?"

"Yes, Cardinal." He was dead. He could sense it. Even though the Cardinal seemed weak, because of _some incidents_ which he would all but like to speak of it _ever_ again, he held his ground firmly, ready to run. You expect the Duchess of Milan to be gentler. Huh, you thought wrong.

"Cardinal, status report? The medic nuns should have checked on your health with aid from Vatican guards along with Father Wordsworth. You are ailed by an unknown factor—it is in your vital readings." Tres suddenly appeared in the office; for Abel hadn't been paying close attention to anything—trying not to lose sight of the Woman of Steel, he jumped and clutched his chest at the sudden noise that was Tres.

Caterina gulped. "I... am fine."

Tres spun to leave a heaving Abel and a not-so-well Caterina, when all of a sudden she decided that all the fuss would be settled right then and there. The Rosenkreuz Orden was trying something new again with the Fleur du Mal NEO and this was just a silly matter compared to that—and her daily load. But, as they say, women with high career motives in intense working conditions are so well-endowed in their jobs that they tend to lose common sense in other subjects, just like socializing. Even with friends.

So... she's going to deal with this just like business. Look tall and belittle them in your presence. Always works.

The Cardinal liked her lips, trying not to dry up like a hydrangea in a desert. She could do this. She could do this. She would do this.

Both priests looked at the seemingly helpless Cardinal; she was enjoying the view between the two men a bit too much. She slowly pursed her lips again into a fine line. The Woman of Steel was nervous, really nervous. Now, two of her top agents would be interrogated about a very touchy-feely subject that made up her fears and conjured 'nightmares' this past week. And both of them didn't even get a clue, thinking that they did something really wrong. Really wrong. It would be really bad. Really bad.

"I am so sorry, Caterina. Whatever we missed we can make it up to you." Abel pleaded with both hands clasping each other for dear repentance of whatever they did, but with a smile in his face. All too evident of his like to get out of her office unscathed—at least, not too badly.

"Cardinal, I have a malfunction and I theorize that this is the cause of my ill performance. But concern of the mission two weeks prior has not been raised to my concern regarding the malfunction; explain the incident, Cardinal, and I shall inform the Professor to upgrade my local systems." Tres heavily inquired her.

She's doomed.

They didn't want to tell her anything of the night two weeks ago? Don't they trust her? She's their superior! She's going to get answers.

"Tell me, both of you—because I don't have the time for this", she gathered her courage and... "Did both of you do anything that is _NOT_ in regulation with our code and our vows, oaths?"

"Huh?!" Abel spat out. Nerves were bundling now. What did they do? They did this to her? It wasn't in the Vatican at all...

"Rephrase question." Tres asked monotonously.

Tres figured that the Cardinal was not fine and that she was acting strange. He stored that information to tell Father Wordsworth later, to assess her situation and how it affects her health. She needs medical attention, that much Tres is certain.

He blinked.

Caterina gulped.

Abel shifted his elbows, each hand not letting go of the other.

"I have received word of—well—two of you—ahem—" the last words died away, mumbled out of earshot.

Unfortunately for her, Tres increased his hearing ability up to 30 percent. And, caught her words perfectly as she said them.

"Excuse me?" Abel cooed innocently, just like a child who didn't hear his teacher right.

"'Doing each other.'" Gunslinger's voice boomed over the silence that had lain all but threadbare in the Cardinal's sanctuary. Monotone-schooled to perfection. But there was a crack in his voice, somewhere in that phrase, that only persons that spend too much time with him could notice. Abel was one of those persons.

He blinked.

"Huh?!" he chocked, bewilderment etched unto his very eyes and face, the curves mended into a warp of that sharp emotion.

"Father Nightroad, it is not advisable to use 'huh' as a sentence; it is incomplete, therefore, void of correctness."

"Repeat what you said."

Abel's mask had become a part of him; this was inevitable because it was _him_ now. That, in hysterical shock and terror, he moved the way a goofy oddball would—his voice perched just on top of a choked whisper. "Doing—what?"

"Doing each other." Tres didn't even blink.

Abel's world seemed to have been replaced by a place where black replaced every color there is and he started sinking as fast as quicksand would allow. It wasn't fast enough to beat the start of Abel's coughing hysteria. He would have been suffocated by it, if it weren't for the hand patting his upper back while another hand circling little etches was caressing the small of his lower back. It allowed him some calm enough to eventually draw oxygen into his burning lungs.

Breathe. Haaahhhu. Breathe.

In all the chaos that Abel suffered, Caterina was there to witness it all unfold before her eyes. Her eyes puffed—yes, puffed—to the size of saucers when Tres heard her and stated to Abel in a matter-of-fact tone the phrase she aired into thin air. Her heart went out of its ribcage when Abel begun coughing. She was just about to call for Kate when... Tres 'handled' the situation. Her eyes fell out from their sockets. She would give anything right now to be a lifeless blood-starved mummy. At least they don't experience breakdowns.

Imagine Her Eminence stiffening each time, and her shocked trauma-gaze when her eyes beheld Tres securing Abel in his arms like they were close or something.

Are they really...

Caterina simply stared. Tres moved to Abel's aid because of two reasons—one, the Cardinal would not be pleased having a scene right in front of her resulting in a companion's hospitalization; and two, this was one way of hitting two birds with one stone—he helps Crusnik get better, the Cardinal gets more relaxed. He evaluated that his boss was a tad bit too nervous today, judging by the way she moved. According to the library's M36 Book, Shelf 13 of B (Psychotherapy), Terran female leaders act strong outside but there are little 'quirks' that give away their 'inner turmoil'. While Tres soothed Abel in a brotherly embrace and out of rationale, Caterina was not thinking right at the moment.

She wasn't thinking that he was Father Hercules Tres Iqus, Gunslinger, HCIIIX Gunmetal Hound owned by the Woman of Steel. No.

Her brain melted down enough to soften her grip on reality to totally ensure that the Cardinal now had a successful mental breakdown.

She didn't think about the fact that he would slice his limbs for her safety. She didn't think about the times that the Killing Doll was there for her, and only her. She didn't think about the times that her life was in eminent danger and she was almost to the brink of all mortal peril and he was there, the Killing Doll was there.

She just imply stared at the scene her two AX Agents were fiddled in by her own foolishness, and for good measure, her breakdown.

Abel didn't see it coming. Tres didn't see it coming. Even she, herself, didn't see _this_ coming.

Cardinal Caterina Sforza was plotting with the evil bastards against Rome to help her two prime agents get together—she wanted them _together_.

* * *

Author's Note:

Hahahaha...

The very idea of THE Cardinal Caterina Sforza—fangirling!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Well... anyway... this is completely crack-ish. I just like torturing Caterina to a breakdown. XD


	4. Chapter of Twos: Part One

(Hahahahaha!!) The Chapter of Twos: Part One

(How ironic…)

Disclaimer: Trinity Blood and its characters are NOT my properties.  
Warning: I am sooo drugged when I did this… just finished reading a hilarious fic

Note: Breakdown II—I imagined Abel as a horse for some reason and I couldn't shrug it off… Having the hay thing so familiar with luring Abel into sweets…

* * *

In life, there's a pattern. There always is a pattern for the evolutionary succession of things to prime their prime. If one specie evolves, all of the species in that area start evolving. This happens if there is a change in the environment and they need to adapt to a new environment according to Charles Darwin's theory; this goes the same for humans. From prosimians to humans, _homo sapiens sapiens_. There was a pattern discovered through carbonated traces in our DNA confirming some facts about the theory, but still it remains a theory because of the lack of consistency in finding more evidence per era or even per year. There always was a time jump in the series of studies made by the Father of Evolution.

Part of the many studies involving the Evolution Theory was in the medical field. Pre-Armageddon doctors scuffed through white hospitals, all grouped into different fields of expertise. Some were surgeons; some were neurologists; some were in pathology; some specialize in histology. Every doctor contributed to their oath to serve, heal—well, most of them anyway. Then, there were nurses. Nurses helped doctors through different things. But they didn't scrub in. Only intern doctors did that, or subcontracted doctors to a hospital. This helped Charles a lot in his quest toward the Galapagos and back. Being a medical practitioner himself, he knew that some factors in healing were nature-based—applying natural techniques that animals use themselves.

The environment holds the truth to a perfect paragon; for humans, we observe patterns to help us improve our lives. In nature, we get many raw data through quantitative analysis as well as qualitative observation, which mold ethical un-biased curriculums for daily living and mass etiquette. In math, Pre-Armageddon humans discovered the Fibonacci sequence. According to Fibonacci, nature holds the sequence in bequeathing its fruits. For example, mother earth's Laburnum stretching out with yellow blossoms pinned crude to its braches, its fingers, numbering from one to two to three to five and so on… Many years and dedication resulted in uncovering the miraculous tenure for humans to reach a better lifestyle with assessing the paragon.

So, Caterina decided that two was her new favorite number. Seven, of course, makes the top of the list of all the numbers she liked, but, somehow, two made top two. How coincidental and ironic.

Really it was. It started out two weeks ago, in her office at Palazzio Spada.

* * *

Tres positioned Abel higher up his chest so the man can breathe properly without choking anymore, and to get a clear view of Cardinal Sforza. Her look changed drastically. Again, he could 'sense' that she has gone from 'Nervous Mode' to 'Business Mode', just like him switching from Genocide Mode to Search and Destroy. He really had to get to Father Wordsworth. All the more, because he thought his superior looked at _them_—not just him then Father Nightroad, but both of them at the same time, and he 'sensed' that she was thinking of _them_ as in a plot of a series of unfortunate events they would soon find out. They were one in the Cardinal's eyes, deep and calculating. They were one, not just two in that plot of hers—he could _feel_ it.

While the Cardinal and her Gunmetal Hound battled with their reasoning, each ending up deeper into the confusion, Crusnik tipped the scale and completely drove Caterina to her choice.

"We did…" Abel lulled to himself, unsure why he was feeling so woozy at the moment. He asked the room, pleaded with his eyes what had happened—to only look, surprisingly, at Tres. Abel's mind was blurry, feeling only hot and melted and unsure of itself if it were real. What had started that coughing fit? He was sure he already blurted it out… Or Tres did…

Now, what was he saying? If only he could hear his voice…

As he looked deeper into the cyborg's eyes trying to find an answer through his obtuse, confused mind, all the more he couldn't hear; he couldn't breathe or function.

He needed air. Quickly.

Then he saw Tres' lips moving… he's talking, but—_I can't hear him!_ Abel thought.

"Yes, we did." Tres butted in nonchalantly inferring to the Cardinal's whispered statement, not paying close attention to his partner's unfocused gaze.

Abel gulped. He finally noticed Tres' hands near the base of the back of his neck and sinking low on the dip of his small of his back.

"Ah. Yes. O.K." He blurted out disregarding his conversation with Gunslinger altogether while breaking away from Tres' hold. His mind already died from the coughing—the lack of oxygen could cause stroke or, even more, stupidity and ignorance.

The Cardinal was plunged further into motherly madness. She decided to make the two comfortable being close while keeping it quiet. She told William to keep the rumor a secret and at bay beforehand because she was friends with Abel, and somehow knew he was straight. Now, she kept it because of the couple before her. She could see their paragon in the midst of madness—just in her office, right then and there. Her motherly affection showed for both of her AX Agents in place of her nervousness that immediately melted away. She now clearly thought of all the that she had been preparing and decided to make the two more glued together without creating too much noise about the subject.

What was she thinking?

She was thinking: _I am their _Cardinal_. Period. I call the _**shots**_. _**Even**_ with their _relationships_. _**I **know_ what's best for them._

"Ahem." she voiced indignantly. Instantaneous to her cough the two men parted at a distance which both thought the other had cholera.

"Gentlemen, did you or did you not?" she needed to clear this first. "I have more important matters."

"Uhhh… What are we talking about?" Abel thought out loud, unable to stop himself. We did what? Better let Caterina think for herself.

_I really am not in the mood_. Abel thought.

"I have a mission for both of you. Cardinal Medici 'reported' a problem to me which he got from the Department of Inquisition. Thanks to an unknown source, we now know of a 'witch' hiding, and even training, in the Desolate Area." Caterina stated their mission without further delay.

"But… those grounds aren't even mapped out properly. We don't go there." Abel reasoned. No way was he going there NOW.

"You are not to go there immediately without proper papers and planning. We have received word, from the same unknown source via thanks to the Department, of a place called San Van Gonza. This is where the source rumored her to be training some very extraordinary abilities.

"Cardinal Francesco Medici received word of the witch four days ago. San Van Gonza, he 'tells' me, is near the ridges of the Darklands by a few miles. It should be easy to spot."

"Why is that, Milady?" Tres asked listlessly.

Caterina cleared her throat. "The place appears to be a well-kept one, regardless of its location. The Darklands are known to be unruly and ruin only graces the land apart from abnormal gray vegetation. The girl has made a cabin there. 'Spotless'. I quote my brother. You'll just find out for yourselves. You are dismissed. Report back here in two weeks time. One week prior to that arrangement, Tres, please see me about a project you'll be working on. Abel, none of this ever happened. O.K.?"

With that the gentlemen retreated from the room, and immediately parted to their separate ways.

* * *

Abel stared longingly into the fountain in the plaza.

"I'm getting too old for this…" he mumbled.

_I'm a 900-year-old person who doesn't have a life outside work. I think that maybe very well an invitation to rethink my work limits._

* * *

Tres Iqus paced faster as he drew nearer the Professor's den. He had to get inspected and upgraded to perform at 100 percent efficiency—at the very least, get the bug fixed—before returning to the Cardinal's office and the mission date—hereafter, not bypass any professional protocol after which.

Tres entered the study and found the man he was looking for by his desk amidst all the piles of disheveled books, scattered files, and amok scribbles. "Professor, I have a malfunction; please fix the problem immediately." Tres stated to the wad of brown papers in front of him.

As he finished, the professor wondered what was wrong with him. He just had his monthly check up two weeks ago. "Tres, my boy, what is the problem?" he inquired.

"Unable to answer: insufficient data in collected observations. But, systems failure over three protocols has been confirmed—cause of servo-systems malfunction unknown." Tres robotically answered.

Father William W. Wordsworth wondered what exactly was wrong with the Gunslinger. He _was_ a very capable inventor—if I say so myself—and considered a prodigy in the University of Londonium in his lifetime. Of all the hurts and troubles he had been forced to endure in that place, he still managed to land faculty in the University of Rome, thanks to Caterina. Now, he owed her Tres and AX which were both endeared to him because he helped them 'grow'. Aracanum Cella ex Domo Dei—AX, for short—was Caterina's personal posy. And, Gunslinger, with every loyal wire folding upon the Cardinal's feet, became part of it because of the woman. Now—he had just to figure out what in blue blazes was wrong with Tres. He had a theory of where all those 'malfunctions' came from, but he already cleared the cyborg of any semen from the _night scuffle_ he had with _whomever_ and scanned his entire body for any frits. Besides, the only other option for Tres' lack of concentration would be—but, Tres didn't have a _sex_ drive. He had several bus ports in some places of his inner cavity; some open, some slotted, but no port held a _sexuality_ drive. Gunslinger was built to only kill and obliterate all who oppose his mission's completion and blindly follow his mistress every whim. He didn't need one of those. William was posilutely sure that what was causing his malfunctions was not an unconscious sexual urge to find his _mate_ again.

But, he better made sure—Garibaldi made excellent androids, and complex cyborgs. Tres was made for any type of mission and situation—_any_ type.

"Tres, would you describe how exactly did you fail three several protocols—in detail, if you please," William asked as he put his pipe near his bottom lip. "so that, we can make a connection to the cause from all the malfunctions."

As William puffed smoke from his pipe, Tres explained the strange nature of his 'malfunctions' and the risk that was at stake if it isn't fixed soon—he couldn't let the Cardinal be defenseless. "Professor, the accountability in efficiency-loss, because of the information shortage and system corruption, is jeopardizing Lady Sforza.

"_Enlisting several systems malfunctions in protocol:  
-Cardinal Caterina Sforza is not deemed full-priority in an event.  
-World's largest handguns, the twin Jericho M13s, have been engaged in non-regulatory events for simulating combat mode.  
-Eavesdropping on Cardinal Caterina Sforza  
Sidelining as effects of a theorized defect in systems unit function._"

"You… eavesdropped on the Cardinal… when?" William languidly lolled the sentence around his pipe with his tongue. _What did he hear? Did he hear us talking about the rumor?_

As Tres explained his eavesdropping activity to Professor of his meeting with the Cardinal, William was at ease in the knowledge that Tres only knew that there was this urge that should be dealt with. He also found Caterina's meeting with the two priests—in question of the rumor—quite funny. _Abel—appearing as the all-natural buffoon._ He guessed that Caterina will now want something out of the two. Better fix that 'glitch' now, before sending Tres to the Darklands. Before he would malfunction completely, or exceed mission parameters. The Darklands were not to be taken lightly.

"So, my boy, you say you 'felt'"? William asked, one more time.

"Positive." Tres confirmed.

"Let's see what I can do…"

* * *

"That was really odd of Tres to just show up unscheduled at my study." William invited himself in the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs.

"Nonsense! Father William, he always does that…" Caterina reminded Professor not bothering to look up from her _paperwork_.

"No, no. It's about his check-ups. He had two check-ups this month, without even sustaining any kind of injury last week." He muddled-mannerly told her, deep in thought.

"What was the damage?" she asked sternly. She must still handle the financial needs of her agency, after all.

"I told Tres that two wires were confused for the other, causing him to 'feel' lot more human by bypassing several high command protocols as useless in taking facts or information in certain _circumstances_." he said as he still gazed at a spot in Caterina's office.

"What were those protocols bypassed and what circumstances did he do those violations?" she demanded him. "I did not receive any report from Gunslinger about this—I pass those as violations, Father William." she explained to the Father's semi-shocked, semi-confused stare.

Professor blinked furiously to catch his brain from wandering again to the clouds. "Well… he said that he eavesdropped on us, hefted the Jericho M13s for a non-emergency or –threatening situation, and forgot something concerning you." he listened as his mouth moved without the brain's help. _Hehehe… that's funny.. he never forgets Caterina._

"What did he hear while eavesdropping? Is he able to do that, and how? What did concern me? What did he forgot? And, I know that your mind is still processing something elsewhere, William—_focus_." The Cardinal interrogated William harshly.

He smiled, defeated. It was not good to be called without any title and by first name in the office at the Spada. It meant that she was getting annoyed—in William's case, he didn't give the information she needed to understand the situation fully. In her line of work, she strives on information, data, and facts.

"Guilty as charged."

"Well?"

"He took a deep breath, and—"While walking back from mass, you assigned the poor fellow with Abel to a mission in Timisoara, to check out the zombie rumor—three days back? Before that, he heard us—don't worry; he only heard the last parts—and made a note to check on you a week later. Well… he said he forgot about you because, two days back, the chap had seemed to back the information on internal time function—to be notified at a later date—_because_ he was busy planning, then, administrating a compromise in their situation there at having Esther as a stow-away. He said he 'felt' constricted at having Esther there. Drowning out all responsibility for the time-being, except the mission, he left the poor sister with Crusnik. After a day, he continued to patrol by himself as usual, but was unwilling of the sister to accompany the oddball to explore the church at the edge of the city—where the two found the Fleur du Mal NEO quarters and the zombies. Tres eventually came to the scene because of 'protection purposes for Father Nightroad'."

William choked on the air that suddenly filled his lungs with new vitality and life. The long declaration wasn't even finished yet…

"Caterina looked up and blinked twice at William. "Congratulations, Father. You made quite the two-minute speech."

"Ahh…" William was glad he got that off completely—_Caterina looks contented enough_. "Everything happening seems to happen in twos." he chuckled. "Poor Tres. Doesn't even know what's going on and what wires got mixed up!"

She could trust him, right? "Father, what were those wires?"

The Cardinal had _the look_ in her eyes. The look that says _I have a plan and your part of my schemes whether you like it or not_; and, most of her plans—with a look like that—include a lot of complex stuff that he didn't want to participate in. "Well… the time regulator and mode transistor—why do you ask?" he said it as politely as possible. He could at least try to break for freedom.

_Not a chance, William_. "I have something in mind—but I need your help to construct a fool-proof _plan_ to put my _motive_ into action." Caterina beamed a sticky-sweet mischievous smile.

'_I do not like that smile.' said I. 'I do not like that smile.'_ The Professor feared for those innocent souls that the Cardinal might blight. Or burn…


	5. Chapter of Twos: Part Two

Chapter of Twos: Part Two

Disclaimer: usual disclaimers apply

Note: I found several mistakes in my previous chapter and I hope I didn't insult anyone, or bother anyone by them. I will fix them, or I have fixed them. Whichever I did. Because this chapter's pretty long. I'm sorry to keep you people waiting. And I remembered Chicken Little always say "What were we talking about?"

And, I'm sorry if I flooded your mail… I was freaking out abut the stupid one-shot that I did. As I've said… I'm a perfectionist. Or what sleeps deprivation does to you.

* * *

"I'm going to be sick."

"Father Nightroad, it is not advisable that you walk to the bar and drink sugar-saturated tea during this flight—the confines of the air-borne vehicular are not appropriate for in-flight locomotion; you can injure yourself. And, due to intermediate turbulence, you may regurgitate your last substantial food." Tres warned the green priest trying to plant his feet firmly on the plane floor.

"Tres, there's no actual _bar_ on this _thing_ were flying in—I don't even think it's a plane; it is a garbage bin launched towards the Desolate Area!" Abel practically screamed. He fervently wished for Tres to second his motion earlier, for them to grab the parachutes at the back and risk loosing their limbs in trekking to the Darklands. Caterina _did_ give them a suspiciously accurate map of the place.

The 'plane' the Vatican hired wasn't exactly the _Tristan_. Wherever Caterina found the absolutely devoted—or frankly insane—pilot of the wreck in the sky, Abel had no idea. _Maybe the same place she got the junk locomotive, since the two are practically living relics themselves. _Except the pilot looked like he was in his mid-30's just wearing antiques from the landfills in Pre-Armageddon. He also had no idea why the Cardinal wouldn't let them ride a decent plane like the _Iron Maiden_; she had the thing practically at her beck and call, for crying out loud! It was just unfair in letting him get stuck with Tres—although a most loyal subject to Cardinal Sforza and a stable comrade, but a stiff colleague—in the vessel, limbs entangled with one another as he constantly tried to scoot away from the shabby, nearly unhinged airlock since eleven o'clock. It was also very uncomfortable, the thought that they have wronged the Cardinal and were getting doused with this cruel and unusual punishment. In addition, Abel was half off his seat and half way on Tres' knees. The inside of the airplane didn't allow him to seat on Tres' lap and didn't give them the extravagance of choice; Abel was too long for the port-side of the plane because of the compartment above it, inevitably landing the oddball priest on the starboard of the ship, near the stupidly dangerous decomposing papered airlock and a dangerously stupid pet gliding squirrel.

_What did I do to deserve this?_ Abel cringed and looked like he was about to cry a river.

"Father Nightroad, status report." Tres asked. He saw the look on the priest's face and registered the emotion as hopelessness, and surrender or defeat. He wondered why the father reacted that way and to what. He scanned his database under _hierarchy_:_ Compadre e Papa de Arcanum Cella ex Domo Dei _for _Abel Nightroad: Crusnik_; and, found the expression of the green man to be a result from the unusual condition of the vessel. Father Abel Nightroad was known to whine/complain on several occasions from regard to uncomfortable or disagreeable factors; he was also keen to have a higher pay or have the Vatican to consider tabbing—_gave an oath to a life of poverty and such_—and sought out comfort from well-defined trends in society—the luxury of cars, modernized planes, and secure mass transits with proper accommodations. . Unlike the circumstance that revealed itself now—the vestige they were on was not par to 1262-3860 health: maintenance code, including the pilot's attire, and has violated several flight security protocols from 848 serial L to 6250 serial N. Tres now can understand why the father was apt to guile his body's movements towards Tres' knees and free chins' leg support. The double-seater deemed not had been constructed to fit two fully-grown men and was degenerating at an exponential rate, fast enough to disintegrate Abel's half of its cover over six hours' time during the flight. Another violation was of take-off: no. 686 (Roma). The glider's Trademark Launch had been to haul the whole object by catapult toward 30 degrees North by Northeast for Desolate Area Code No. 115: San Van Gonza; the start speed of 40 miles per hour could have ripped the airlock off the launched airglider and may had put the three men aboard through a dangerous uncontrollable turbulence eventually leading to a plunge 140 feet above the highest grounds, approximately 50 feet above sea level. There was also the Animal Violation Code No. 468—an uncased pet aboard a public vehicle, especially in a flight. He didn't even know that there was supposed to be a squirrel on board, or if it had had its shots.

But, besides all the faults and numerous dangers potential to the airglider, from takeoff to journey, Tres didn't have doubts. He wasn't to question, _never to question_, the Cardinal's wishes on cutting back a small amount of funds regarding their mission. His check-up appeared to have had miniscule impact to AX's financial back-up—_Tres, my boy, about your check-up; it has been decided that we cut some figures off your mission, O.K.?_—small enough to stall the _Iron Maiden_'s flight to save fuel and to hire a self-registered airship, not in service for any capable agency that specialize for long inter-country private flights, Lady Sforza even assured him that _it was for their own good_. Father Wordsworth also made sure that the catapult mechanism was enough to get them, at the most, just above the target location. "Falling with style." he assured Tres that that was gliding about and it just needs proper calculations in serving its system to function properly and securely.

Abel shook his head. He wasn't going to answer Tres anytime soon.

**0O1**"Ce planeur est ma vie - de sorte comme un baiser d'une femme avec du rouge à lèvres rouge." The, apparently, French pilot suddenly interjected. **0O2**"Skippy, se rappeler les bons vieux jours?"

_So that's why he's nuts…_ Abel thought.

**0O3**"Monsieur, s'il vous plaît concentrer votre attention sur la conduite airglider." Tres said.

**0O4**"Oui ... Oui ..." the pilot said. **0O5**"Juste une chose: votre ami ... est-il bien? Je veux dire, nous pourrions le faire un peu d'aide lorsque nous arrivons à la place de Q10."

**0O6**"Monsieur, est-ce qui Q10?" Tres asked.

**0O7**"Est-elle la sorcière le Vatican parle? Êtes-vous la source digne de confiance de l'Inquisition? Plus important encore, vous sont sanctionnés et autorisé, par fealty, AX d'avoir cette information?" he heavily inquired the now bug-eyed pilot.

**0O8**"Parler."

"Uh… uh…" the pilot blurted. "Uh… **0O9**C'est dans le non-nécessité d'en connaître." he ended with a sheepish smile.

"Paler." Tres demanded. His crimson eye flashed.

"Oui… Oui…" the pilot repeated. **0O10**"Je dirai ... après nous ce chiot terre!"

**0O11**"Mieux être fidèle à ta parole, monsieur." Tres warned.

While the two were busy speaking, Abel was breathing slowly, in a steady and calm rhythm. Close to hyperventilation.

"You can speak French?" Abel asked Tres, barely a whisper. It was a miracle Tres even heard without adjusting his hearing ability.

"Positive." Tres answered. He didn't require any more information for the rest of the flight—he was preparing for the landing interrogation of Mr. D'Voughnn Bijoux.

"Tres? Are we there yet?" Abel hopelessly asked for the 11th time. This time, he wasn't shaking.

"Negative. 4 hours 12 minutes and 32.23 seconds until we reach San Van Gonza." Tres robotically chorused. "We will be there by nine in the evening."

With contempt, Abel decided to just settle for the minute space on the seater with fabric cover between Tres and the eaten other half. They spent the rest of the flight listening to the squirrel and the pilot talk.

* * *

"We're going to DIE!!" Abel shouted over the turbulence.

"Negative. We will land safely." Tres assured him while bracing the other father for the impact, chucking his partner over to the back and holding him in place.

**0O12**"Préparez-vous! Dans…" the pilot announced over the wails of the wind. **0O13**"Trois ... deux ... une ..." he braced himself as well…

BOOM!

An explosion of dust blurred the light from every direction; the airlock was finally unhinged; the squirrel was nowhere to be heard; and, plenty a paper laid waste over the three bodies inside the landed glider. Abel had screwed his eyes shut in the moment before impact whilst Tres tightened his grip on the emergency handle at the back of the glider; a fraction of a second after the crash, the handle broke free of the back wall and plunged both priest to the pilot seat. Abel's scream was heard in the one-mile radius as his family jewels were disturbed by the yoke of the mechanism; Tres grabbed the co-pilot seat's back and saved the squirrel stuck between both seats while he swung both his legs to scoop Abel up and towed the priest to the back. Tres hauled himself next with a second swing; he handed Abel the squirrel, regardless of his grief and grabbed fists-full of the pilot's mangled garbs. He held both men by their waists and put them in firemen carries.

**0O14**"Dude ... refroidissement ... Nous n'allons pas sombrer plus loin. Croyez-moi, je l'ai fait avant. Mis à part ... le planeur le mécanisme a été construit par un super genie!" the pilot, Bijoux, suavely informed Tres.

**0O15**"Négatif." Tres retorted. He kicked off the roof of the glider and jumped more than high enough to get them out of the vessel. He landed a good meter away from the crater they created and unloaded both men at once.

**0O16**"Sacrebleu!" Bijoux shouted. **0O17**"Le planeur! Il coulait!"

**0O18**"Positifs. Le navire de amortisseurs ne sont pas appropriés pour l'impact causé par un de trois hommes de poids net. Votre airglider a la capacité de vous, mais pas tous les trois d'entre nous. Nous sommes le surplus de poids - à repousser les limites des amortisseurs." Tres stated matter-of-factly.

**0O19**"At-il savons que nous sommes à venir?" Tres stopped his search protocol and placed the red dot on Bijoux's forehead.

**0O20**"Tout d'abord, faire pas mal parler l'enfant. D'autre part, ne demandez pas «jusqu'à ce que vous voyez ... neh?" Bijoux retorted with mischief, laden with a concealing grin.

"STOP!" Abel merged to life. He was still sitting spread-legged on the spot where Tres dropped him, in shock of the whole flight, with the squirrel fighting for his right to breathe. "What's happening? Tres?" He gulped.

_Close your eyes and breathe… Breathe._ Abel chanted in his head.

"Father Nightroad, the witch's identity has been given an alias. I speculate that it is Q10. The pilot, D'Voughnn Bijoux, knows a person living either near or on the mission's location." Tres briefly answered, without looking at him.

Abel exhaled. "Really…?" He noticed the vermin who was wildly thrashing in his hand; he immediately let go.

**0O21**"Monsieur, savez-vous d'une identité avec une extrême capacités? Quels sont les formulaires comme celui de génie ou de la sorcellerie?"

**0O22**"Wooowww ... Là bas. Je pense que nous devrions ..." Bijoux tried to escape interrogation.

**0O23**"Vous avez justifiés pour interrogatoire pendant le vol." Tres reminded him.

"Oh… hehehe…" he chuckled, defeated. Skippy perched on his right shoulder and started to groom himself—as if the critter's saliva can do the fur any good; it looked like it was scavenged in the landfills as well.

**0O24**"D'accord. Q10 est effectivement Enigma Q10. Elle est—" his babble was cut short by a bullet that pierced his head. Skippy didn't move from his spot on the man's shoulder; it was still grooming.

Abel quickly rose to his feet and stood beside Tres. The pain between his legs was nothing compared to the feeling he got when the wind suddenly burst by his knees. "We've got a visitor."

Both men readied themselves; Tres took out his twin Jerichos while Abel wielded his silver rifle. They stayed back-to-back in the attempt of guarding opposite directions in case the killer strikes them. Their senses heightened with the scuffling in the nearest bush; scrapping near the tallest tree by their far right; and the sound of a blade being taken out of its sheath by their near left. Where the heck is she? Whoever this girl was she's good. The two priests moved father from the body of the once-giddy pilot and the crater with a totally-scrapped glider, the skin pealing and the skeleton revealed. It didn't look like it was built by a super genius now. It was hard to believe that a piece of junk like that was ever a work of a brilliant mind. The father they got, the more the wind blew them, and almost knocking Abel off his feet, but Tres was as steady as a rock with each step.

"Four-Eyes, you won't win. I know your every move. Don't call me 'girl'—I _do not _like that. And, I _am_ a super genius." the wind howled from within the gray canopy of the forest. It resonated over the hoods of the gigantic phantoms stretching throughout their vision and did not sound unearthly so to prick at the back of any man's neck. It just echoed as the wind did.

"Huh? Who are you? Show yourself." Abel retorted.

"Look, Four-Eyes. That guy's fine. I just returned the favor, that's all." Then, the wind picked up all the pieces from the wreck and a cloud of dust spiraled around the airglider's skeleton. After the gust, the ruin was no more but a new wreck appeared right beside the crater that looked just like the one before. "This thing you call junk, my Four-Eyed Cretin, is the makings of a genius mind. From scratch, I have built a fully-functional aircraft with a flying mechanism which holds the most distance versus all the refuse fly-bys from before! The Catapult 3000, you are frightened of, is a very useful firing mecha-droid allowing the Glider 32A to take to the wind. The Catapult also helps me send cretins like you to the moon; I can even tell it to send you through one of the moons to get to the other. That baby kicks, man!"

Abel looked fervently around the clearing. But, Tres noticed the dead pilot slowly coming to his feet. Abel's eyeballs bulged in their sockets. _This can't be happening_. The bush at the opposite end rustled and a mysterious creature stepped out. It was dressed down in a black cloak laced by a complicated but elegant knot by the neck. Its hood was shadowing the figure's face but not enough to conceal the thin pale lips with fangs sticking out of them. It was shorter than both the men from Vatican, and it was also of frail form--but, judging just through looking at the phantom did nothing. He was wearing a very roomy cloak.

"Dude… it's me." The form lifted what looked like its hand and dropped the hood from its perch. A boyish grim face greeted them. Its eyes, an astonishing cobalt blue. He looked like he was from a monastery and had this criminally innocent facial depiction of a saint somewhere that was framed with gleaming short obsidian hair. Like normal teenagers' cut for boys. A bit longer than Tres'. This can't be Q10... she's not like this is she? "I am Q10."

She made her way towards the frozen father and the intimidating cyborg. "Switching from—"

"'Switching from Search Mode to Genocide Mode.' Is that what your going to say?" the girl intruded. "I told you people that you won't win. And, Four-Eyes, I'm no girl. Get that through your thick skull. That's why I gave you my name. Right, Bijoux? Or call me 'he' in your thoughts; I don't have a gender, after all…"

"Search Mode to Genocide Mode." Tres finished and started to air bullets heading for Q10's extremities and the moving corpse.

But, the bullets were stopped in midair. The black clad arms of Q10 were raised and the zombie now halted beside her by a few meters. The bullets were rotating slowly, ever so slowly, on their spot. Abel and Tres noticed that after several stunned seconds. "I have telekinesis, morons. And, this 'corpse', Four-Eyes', 'Metal-Dog', is not a corpse—it's my satellite, B.I.U.Z.Z.I." she said, looking bored.

"Bizzy?" Abel and Tres asked.

"Yeah. Bus Inter-Universal Zapotec deZign Intercom-lace. B.I.U.Z.Z.I.—or Bizzy for short." she perked up. "I like giving people a taste of science, that's why I perk up whenever I teach, morons."

"Now, see here, young lady…" Abel sternly addressed the girl who crushed Tres' 13 millimeter cases and tossed them straight at the pilot's forehead. And, who even read his thoughts.

"For the last time, Old Four-Eyed Freak: I _DO NOT_ like being called woman names… Do I look like a woman to you? Don't answer that." Q10 threatened. " BD, you called me 'she', didn't you?" his eyes flashed black. Flashes of lightning struck the stooped limping frame by his side.

"OW! Lightning is not supposed to strike the same spot twice unless per one trillionth bolt! It's unfair!" the corpse suddenly spoke. It transformed, piece by piece with the flying squirrel, to a black dragonfly with curves and lines that glowed green.

"I have the power over the elements, _Bee_." Q10 teased.

"It's Bizzy, genius! I'm a dragonfly design!" the green electronic bug protested. "And, you better stop that or I'm going to tell!"

"For your A.I., I think I've put too much necro in you. And, for your information, backlash, I have no _GENDER_! I prefer to be called _'he'_, dung-maestro!" Q10 retaliated. The bug started to rapidly beat its wings and took off to the east.

"Oi!" Q10 called after it. "Wait up, if you don't want to be green, blue, and, yellow!" he then ran to the tallest tree and jumped an incredible distance trying to lessen the space between him and the tech-bug.

"Hey!" Abel shouted. "Wait! Come back!" They were distracted by the odd actions the two displayed before the ecclesiastical pioneers of destruction.

"Switching from Genocide Mode to Search Mode." Tres said. "Father Nightroad, we must get to them and question his whereabouts in the Desolate Area." With that, Abel was hefted onto Tres' back. "Wait…" Tres!" Tres bent down and slid his right foot back; then, started to run. He was running unbelievably fast, rapidly enclosing the distance from clearing to clearing the two odd ones went through. "Father, I am going to accelerate my speed to 40 miles per hour, but you must be ready to carry my weight for 30 minutes in Shutdown Mode after you make an agreement with the extraordinary being." Abel was not able to answer because, in the next moment, Tres ran faster and beat the dirt more rapidly. We caught up with Q10, his cloak billowing after him; he didn't even glance down or sideways. He just stared straight forward like he knew where the bug was going; nevertheless, the bug was trying to shake them all off by doing zigzags through the gray trees. Every time Tres went nearer Q10 swerved and furthered himself from the two fathers.

When we finally caught up to him, he said, "I know what you're trying to do. Well, it's not going to work. I do not negotiate with bastards from the Outside. You people are just as bad as you were before." Then, he disappeared…

* * *

The breeze frolicking near the surface of the gray grass bound around the feet of a bespectacled form in Vatican robes. A man lay beside him, unmoving and undisturbed by the crisp sounds coming from the crackling firewood. The nighttime sky was jet black and little twinkling dots cascaded from endless end to endless end. Graying or totally patina vegetation from the surroundings disseminated a wall protecting the outside world as well as the clearing they landed in. Both men were under a ginormous tree with a most free space around it, where Tres broke down after about five minutes of searching the premises for Q10. The kid got away without a trace; after he disappeared, Tres put his systems on overdrive and went searching frantically about the bushes. Amidst Abel's confusion and his hair collecting splinters, the world was in a blur, even when the father's eyes were screwed shut from time to time; Tres went over 60 miles and some of his clothes were torn off and one of his boots smiled at the very last of his strength's testaments. The two laid there for 30 minutes, but it was enough to get the oddball priest into a deep slumber.

Tres woke up. _"Checking servosystems performance…"_ his red eye flashed. "_Systems check, complete: no programming is damaged._

"_Initiating drive build-up: damages, 49 malfunction:_  
"_Overdrive damage assessment:  
-Overheated hydraulic boosters  
-Overworked balance (neutral) hydraulics  
-Unresponsive left leg  
-Right Leg must not be moved to prevent further damage: repair is required._

_"Mechanisms check, complete._

"_Mission parameters checked and revised: mission start—_LOG 001: October 22, 3072: Operation Wizard Search." Tres robotically spurred.

He noticed the oddball priest lying next to him and inferred from the sleeping diagnostics scan to retreat from waking him. Their surrounding was exactly the same when he shutdown; the location was not safe as intruders might be in the area and had followed them during the chase for Enigma Q10. Tres scanned the clearing but only up to the edges, not deep enough through the foliar to assess it clear. His right eye flashed a more brilliant red than the left; vigilant of any entity on the prowl in the deep grayed bushes. Time trickled on into minutes of silence as the swagger of the trees lay drunk the sky to any Terran soft enough to take the bait; the roots' coruscated withing along the forest floor dove for the sanctuary of the earth after a long drag from their mother tree; the breeze laid waste to just man's attention at the moment when skin touches the chilling night air. All that had been ignored by the cyborg as he continued his never-tiring guard and search over the patch of land they were on.

Then all of a sudden, a twig cracked from behind.

"Who is there?" Tres demanded. "Are you the one they call 'Enigma Q10'?"

The wind sprawled its bearing in front of the unblinking man, but all he saw first was the translucent dust being beat by the ethereal force. After which, the figure came out with the same attire he had worn 46 minutes and 33.4 seconds ago since last sight of the subject.

"Yes. I deem that you're the smart one? You're the rational one, yes?" Q10 calmly addressed Tres.

"Positive." Tres said. "Your invention, the dragonfly satellite, you name B.U.I.Z.Z.I., vouched for interrogation. I require that you comply with our agreement."

"He said that you can speak French, oui?" Q10 asked.

"Positifs."

**0O25**"Eh bien ... nous devons discuter de certaines questions sur ce que vous voulez et ce que je veux."

* * *

"This is the dome…" Q10's voice bounced off the walls and created a voice that boomed for the miles along the entrance hall. He proceeded to the left of the massive metallic double doors and stood by a metal stand with a gaunt stone slab.

"How far does this hall go?" Abel asked. He finally woke up in Tres' arms in a bridal-style carry during the trek towards Q10's place. What really got him to stretch his eyelid muscles was that Q10 was carrying Tres and Tres was carrying him.

"You do not need to know… Do you speak Spanish? Latin? French? German?" the kid inquired, his back facing them with a typing sound emanating from the concealed slab as he typed on it.

"Isn't English enough?" Abel asked curious to why he would like some other language. They seemed to be communicating just fine.

The extraordinary child marched towards Tres, crossing the vast space the diameter of the hall had. **0O26**"J'avais raison en vous nommant un malin ..." he said unsmiling as he passed by Tres' sitting form in the far east side of the colossus hall. **0O27**"Je vais juste faire mes outils; je fixer votre ami, Quatre-Yeux—Non—mise à jour. Celui qui construit lui était stupide. Pas de talent que ce soit. Ses pièces et mécanique sont inutiles des "rossignols"!" he called back to Abel, not looking at him and continuing towards the corner wall near Tres' bench. He again disappeared into thin air with strong echoes at his wake… just like that.

Abel stopped gawking at the marvel before them and asked Tres, "What did he say?"

"'_I will get my tools; I will fix your friend, Four-Eyes—no—upgrade him. Whoever built him was stupid. No talent whatsoever. His parts and mechanics are useless pieces of junk.'_" Tres imitated the voice of Q10.

Abel mouthed an 'O.K.' and retuned to gazing at everything in the room. The Dome wasn't really like a dome outside; it had a dome but it also had wings: East Wing01, West Wing01, East Wing02, and West Wing02. The interior looked like it was built along the lines of the Baroque Style inside a Victorian mansion and between the seas of Futuristic-Bare and Cathedral-Big. The slab of stone was really a keyboard which had a holographic monitor stemming from its leg; the ceiling was reflecting the evening sky outside and had a holographic translucent violet plate on one end forecasting weather. The floor was white marble and the walls were mixed marbles that matched; blue and white swirled on the right fighting the vermillion and black pools on the left, but at the front, graphite-marble pillars stood before a corner stall of the wall which was made of bed stone rocks smelted to a smooth perfection—destined for a marble encounter. Marble was the theme of the dome; everything was meant to fit around the marbles, not the other way around. _He must really like marble…_

When they were outside, just three minutes ago, Enigma Q10 said to call him Q10—_it's better that way_. There was many a thing he couldn't understand about that kid. He couldn't have been weirder; "Everything you see here survived the Armageddon—you better pay respects for the trees that saw your before-life and demise… My home is my haven; desecrate it and you must pay it something of equal importance—when you break a Ming Dynasty vase, you'll give me a vase that means equally as much to you as the Ming did. So is the payment like. The Dome, my home, is a shelter for the Pre-Armageddon histories. Do not touch anything that looks like it's important. Some things are never meant to be opened and some things are never meant to be disturbed. The antiquities in my palace have been preserved throughout time—it's curse is that it holds your keys for a life of leisure—you humans and vampires are all the same and still you impend war on opposing forces, even yourselves. 900 years you've been cooped up in a sepulcher of your lover when she wants you to enjoy life! Stupid! I say the least of the matter…

"The Dome must not be beheld by any ear I do not know and anyone I do not sanction for them to know. Abel… you have quite the mouth and the justice in you to do whatever it seems necessary to be transparent with the ones you love—well, guess what, in these lands, you do not get acquaintances, you build them! My inventions, my friends, have been with me for many a year. Pay them heed when they say warnings and tales of fact and morality. I have been _'babbling'_ to them for at least a thousand years, Abel. Tres, I expect you to keep a close watch on your pathetic friend. I know of your past, dander-head. Don't ask how. I even know where Tres came from—and it's not with the rise of the Gunmetal Hounds." Q10 had lain down a while back.

When Abel awoke, Q10 halted and laid down the law. Good thing that the weirder stuff came last; "You people are my guests—but do not take with you the idea that you can ask away. When I look at you in a particular way, you should stop your line of thought for later. Period. As my guests, you can ask to the extent of what my powers are, but not how they work. Do experiments on me, take my DNA sample—and, I collect your hides. The Dome is architecturally designed to stand any situation regarding Earth's calamities and severe conditions. It tops any model of the Post-Armageddon world. Its interior defines the golden rim of styles from the Pre-Armageddon Super Eon and so much more; the nanotechnology that I installed in the marvel surpasses any that has been built on Earth; the machinery behind the Dome's moving parts is top secret—take the secret and I'll take your lives. I can _kill_; I am _not_ Terran. You may run away, for all I care. Since you're guests, you are free to roam the Melancholy Forest, with its beasts and insects you have never encountered, without my company; you can stroll inside my home to the extent you borrow my toothbrush that I'll never use again. But—do not go into the West Wing01. I will not kill you when you enter there; I will just burn your soul. I do not kid." Q10's words rang inside Abel's head.

Weirder. Which was weirder?_ The first or the last?_

"Father Nightroad, do not extensively think through his words. They are very clear; we are to be mannered guests. That is all. He also has two sides; one is the phantasmagorical figure of tween youth stretched to great heights by accord of a high intelligence quotient; two is the manifestation of an adult figure astute by a responsible and stern point, relative to the high intelligence quotient.

"According to my readings, your heart apparatus sped up by 0.12; your sweat glands are excreting 0.02 of normal sweating rate. Relax, Father Nightroad. That way, we can assess the situation more clearly and benefit the mission's advance in interrogating the party in question." Tres stated across the hall. The echoes reverberating into the endless black by the far north end.

Abel smiled. "I'm sorry, Tres. I guess… I'm just startled that another person remembers something of the Pre-Armageddon world."

**0O28**"Was werden Sie in etwa, Vier-Augen?" Q10 phased through the wall just beside Tres. **0O29**"Sie haben Unternehmen in diesem Raum-Eimer, nicht wahr?"

**0O30**"Ich weiß, wie zu sprechen Deutsch." Abel countered. Putting his bottom lip up into a pout.

**0O31**"Zurück auszuschalten, moron. Ich weiß, es ist nur die Grundfunktionen, dass Kraftstoffe." Q10 growled. "Tres, I told you to keep an eye out for stupid animals."

"Shut up. Before you hurt yourself." with a smile, he stopped Abel's whine and took Tres' right foot. He knelt down and inspected the damage done. "Looks like you really wanted to catch me…"

After a few more minutes, "Bee, get your useless butt down here!" he shouted without looking away from Tres' ankle.

"Yeah. What's your problem now, bird-brain?" the dragonfly also phased through the right-side wall. "What is it that you—wow. Damage!"

"You sound like—" Abel tried to interrupt.

**0O32**"Σκάσε, χο bespectacled μία. Moronic σας είναι συμπληρωματικοί τρόποι για idiocy, δεν είναι η μηχανική ταχύτητα υδραυλικού." Q10 didn't even bat him an eye.

"That's it! What's with you an calling me names!" Abel finally fumed. He was done with this kid's games.

"You understood what I said?" Q10 then whispered something to Bizzy and it took off, like it was to find something that holds the cosmos' fate. "Don't worry; that's a normal speed. I like to get the items I request fast."

"No. I did not understand, but I can tell from your voice that you were mocking me." Abel huffed. He was still standing from across the hall, by the entrance. Still, they could hear him because of the echoes.

"Let's see if you can understand this." Q10 said, he readied himself with a deep breath.

"The plane you were on had several violations:

"Tres, if I may quote you: _the vestige was not par to 1262-3860 health: maintenance code, including the pilot's attire, and has violated several flight security protocols from 845 serial L to 6250 serial N. Another violation was of take-off: no. 686 (Roma). The glider's Trademark Launch had been to haul the whole object by catapult toward 30 degrees North by Northeast for Desolate Area Code No. 115: San Van Gonza; the start speed of 40 miles per hour could have ripped the airlock off the launched airglider and may had put the three men aboard through a dangerous uncontrollable turbulence eventually leading to a plunge 140 feet above the highest grounds, approximately 50 feet above sea level. There was also the Animal Violation Code No. 468—an uncased pet aboard a public vehicle, especially in a flight. You didn't even know that there was supposed to be a squirrel on board, or if it had had its shots._

"Am I right? Or am I right?

"Here's the deal: Can you see the pattern? The plethora of numbers are then devised to have an ulterior meaning; 1262-3860 equals 2998 which is still divisible by two; 848-12 equals 836 another one divisible by two; 6250-14 equals 6246, which can also be distributed equally; 686 is also part of the chain, as well as 1+1+5+3+0, 40+50, 468. Even the first letter of the land you came from is even out into two when coded as a number! Every number, when added, sums to an even number. Every turn leads to a neutralization caused by the homeostasis of the scale between the numbers. Or, that is, they are divisible by two. This chain of happenings also has been reflected in real life simulations…Look at the first number in the sequence: 1262, that's equal to ABEL: 1+2+5+12. 3860 is equal to 2018519 or TRES. 18 for T and 20 for R, in 28. 12 inverse is 21. 1+4 equals 5. Then, when turned into letters, they become U and E. When spelled, the letters make up the word TRUE. I will not elaborate in that matter, as it appears that you are now on the verge of questioning me on some other matters negligible of these facts.

"All I can say is that… I am a GENIUS!!" Q10's speech ended with a triumphant roar as he picked up pieces of metal and what looked like oil-jelly around Tres. While he was busy explaining to Abel the ever constant twos shaking up the events around them, the two priests as its epicenter, he was tinkering away in upgrading the motionless cyborg. "Tres doesn't need to shutdown. Interesting. Garibaldi has outdone himself with that feature… But still—he's stupid. And, I have now improved his Hound.

"Nah! I will just christen you Tres! With the new set of hydraulics, you've increased 6 inches in height; a synthetic skin which can insulate you and a companion within the heat of 3000 degrees Fahrenheit; stronger muscle lines made of elastic mono carbon fiber isotopes; and, servosystems rigs has been replaced by nanotechnologies, namely the Invent 42 and 64 nanomachines, when compiled conducts the natural rhythm imitated from the pulsation of the circulatory system, resulting in drive overdrive de-heating and faster and more accurate movement and deduction." he rapidly spoke from debris to debris he picked up. "The work was worth it. Neh, Bizzy?"

"In English…?" Abel found his voice harsh.

"I took out the junk and replaced them with ingenious nanotech. The Cardinal's decision precedes the paragon; you two are the eye of the storm, the epicenter affecting the earth. You get? Of course, you don't, dander-head… You should recommend that woman to a psychiatrist. Caterina has issues about pairs, or the number two. A condition which may lead to arithmomania. Crazy Lady!" He stood up and inspected Tres' extremities and was massaging his trunk.

"There. Tres the Nano-Cyborg!" he exuberantly hailed. "You are only to be called Father Tres Iqus now—you are no machine as I have speculated when we first encountered." He hefted Tres unto his own feet and ordered, "Tres, walk."

"Affirmative." Tres said monotonously.

The used-to-be-limp father braced his feet firmly on the marble ground. He slowly paced the room with superb elegance unlike he had ever done in the numerous walks between the two priests. Abel was in awe; Tres looked like he was striding on thin air, or walking down feather-like clouds. Every step took the tanned man closer to the alabaster shocked Crusnik. Every step took an eternity to register in Abel's brain, that it was really Tres strolling across the massive entrance hall and not a male model. Tres' body poised itself flawlessly; all his parts conducted the symphony orchestra as it swooned, swaying his hips. _The thoughts you get with spending time with Leon._ He then looked down at the white floor, hoping that his skin wasn't exhibiting the shades of red.

"Wow. You're good." Abel blurted out.

"Thank you. NOW, Tres is ready for any mission. Even balls in some distant land, with all the princesses, dukes, royalty… whatever! Tres, the gentleman. Nice… He won't be acting like the rigid cyborg." Q10 babbled innocently.

Abel blushed ten redder shades of red, each one redder than the last. "Oh… hehehe."

"Why are you blushing like a tomato?" Q10 asked without cynicism. He saw that the father was blooming like one in a sauna.

"Father Nightroad, status report." Tres ended Abel's peace. He was standing in front of the gussied father; half-naked and a lot taller than what he used to be. The upgraded man has been relieved of the twin Jerichos and his Vatican robes and jacket; the tanned skin gleamed in the presence of light emanating from the ceiling although there was neither lightbulbs nor fluorescents above them. A violet haze started to spread on the rim of the ceiling-sky and put the atmosphere for a deep night sleep. Abel's eyes were transfixed for a moment in time on a spot on Tres' body.

"Yo! Four-Eyes… up top. Not down low. 'kay?" Q10 interjected.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Tres. It's just that… I have never seen you walk like that. Ever." Abel wheezed.

"Yeah, Four-Eyes! I'm better than that Garibaldi fellow."

"My hydraulics are just upgraded, father. It must have affected the synchronization of my body's locomotion." Tres stated.

"Both of you, it's time we hit the hay. I'll escort you to your rooms. Tres, I need you to dress yourself. Abel, close your pie-hole. Gentlemen, we are to leave for our own beds by tonight, thank you very much." Q10 commanded.

* * *

The accommodation Abel got was the whole enchilada; his room was in Baroque Style but with a tiled graphite floor and five humongous pictures decorating the five walls of the hexagon; on one side, there was this wall-sized window with a balcony which overlooked most of the east-western side of the Darklands. It was an amazing room; two bookshelves, five meters high and four meters wide, full of books dating back to the Greeks; a bed apparel of white satin and silk within the confines of a king-sized four-poster bed; all the furniture there was designed to fit around the room's wall decor, like from the entrance hall. There was also the food! Marvelous food, glorious food; magical… food! There were pastries that Abel didn't know existed and a tea so marvelously sweet, he only added two—or was it one and a half—teaspoons of sugar to it! It was living wonderland!

"Enjoying your stay?" a phantom asked by the shadowy corridor. Abel was too at an awe to even busy himself with closing his own room's door.

"Huh?" Abel mumbled as he skimmed thorough an ancient book.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." the phantom said and closed the door behind him. Q10 walked over to the ginormous window. "Look, there's the tree. The ginormous tree. It's a good thing you two landed yourselves there. The creatures of this wood know how vast my territory is."

Abel looked up. "Yeah. This is actually the first time I've seen it in its glory." He saw that the tree really was gigantic. It was even more massive than the Vatican's coliseum! And, to think, that this Dome was much more than that. Abel shuddered and wondered how big the Dome really was. "How big is this home of yours again?"

Q10 glanced back at him, but did not say a word. He started to head for the door.

"Wait!"

"Nightroad, I have already called you father once. I am not going to do it again. So please keep in mind that you are a priest and it will do you good to keep to yourself for this evening. I have a lot of thinking to be done; your stay here has been unexpectedly soon—I must make amends to the schedule and mechanisms of my home and my friends. They have A.I. but they need to know you a bit better than what you'll give them." Q10 said without looking at him, and continued his gait for the door. Once there he let Abel see his bowed profile. "Do not worry about Tres. I do not intend to fiddle with the Vatican nor the Empire. Your friend is fine; better—he has been upgraded hardware-wise. His software though… well, I'll leave that to Professor."

With that said, Q10 left the room closing the door behind him.

Abel wondered why the kid knew so much about the way things work Outside. And, the Vatican's officers. He knew who he was—and that was spelling danger for everyone. Knowledge in the hands of the wrong people can be a weapon unheard of by all the years from before.

* * *

Author's Note:

I hope this thing is good. I hoped to post it sooner but, a glitch occurred. I watched vids for hours. I will be posting two more chapters back-to-back after this as an apology for freaking out about my one-shot. I flooded my mail doing that. So I hope you guys enjoy the next chapters.

Translations:

001-this plane is my life—sort of like a kiss from a woman with rouge lipstick.

002-remember the good old times?

003-Sir, please focus your attention on driving the airglider.

004-Yes. Yes.

005-Just one more question: your friend… is he Ok? I mean, we could get help when we arrive in Q10's place.

006- Sir, who is this Q10?

007-Is it the witch the Vatican speaks of? Are you the trusted source of the Inquisition? More importantly, are you sanctioned and authorized by fealty to AX, to have this information?

008-Speak

009-that's in the no-need-to-know basis

0010-I will tell… after we land this puppy!

0011-Better be true to your word, sir.

0013-Three… Two… One…

0014-Dude, chill… We're not going to sink any further. Trust me; I've done this before... besides the glider's mechanism has been built by a super genius.

0015-Negative

0016-I have no idea how to spell that.

0017-The glider! It's sinking!  
0018-Positive. The vessel's shock-absorbers are not adequate enough for the impact caused by a three-man net weight. Your airglider has the capacity to hold you, but not all three of us. We are the extra weight—pushing the limits of the shock-absorbers.

0019-Did it know we're coming?

0020-First of all, don't bad talk the kid. Second of all, don't ask 'till you know… neh?

0021-Sir, do you know of an identity with extreme capabilities? Which are in the forms of wizardry or witchcraft?  
0022-Woowww… there. I think we should…

0023-You have vouched for interrogation during the flight.

0024-Alright. Q10 is actually Enigma Q10. She's—

0025-Well, then… we need to discuss some matters about what you want and what I want.

0026-I was right in naming you the smart one.

0027-I will just get my tools; I will fix your friend, Four-Eyes—no—upgrade him. Whoever built him was stupid. No talent whatsoever. His parts and mechanics are useless pieces of junk!

0028-What are you going on about, Four-Eyes?

0029-You had company on that space-bucket, didn't you?

0030-I know how to speak German.

0031-Back off, moron. I know it's only the basic that fuels you.

0032-Shut up, oh bespectacled one. Your moronic ways are complimentary to idiocy not the mechanics in hydraulics velocity.


	6. Oh! Abel Was Not Listening!

Oh! Abel Wasn't Listening!

Summary: Where is Enigma when you need him? Abel wasn't feeling all that well in the bed he was assigned in and he can't remember something from before. Can Tres help out? Or will another help Abel through his miserable existence in the Dome?

Author's Note: One of the Freak-Out Make ups… Enjoy! ;) (Pls. note that I did this in more than a month because of school and Internet surfing between the sentences…)

* * *

Down the spiral halls and cascading mezzanines; up the banisters and the marble corridors—people went by the father's room. The Dome was filled through with Vatican folk—some were from the church, some not. But, the Vatican's fellows were there.

GOOD GRIEF!

Oh, crud.

I'll collect your hides.

AH!

* * *

"Dumb stupid absurd dream." Abel said while rising from his bed. He sat on the white satin sheets for a while and let his head sink back into its proper weight. He wasn't the type to complain when it came to luxurious beds and a fine accommodation with free delectable hot meals—but this bed was different. It was like it was nagging him about something he had missed. Something he forgot. Something he didn't pay attention to. That's awkward; Abel's mask was there to mislead people from the truth—to forget means to hide from the past, or keep it buried deep beneath the layers of ignorance and concealed guilt—aside from all of that, he was always alert and had heightened senses, but he hid it perfectly from human perception. He also did it well in sleep. So now—what was keeping him awake? There was something that kid said that made him think last night—is it still night-time?—and it was something that purged all the dreams, and even nightmares, from his present mind. It just kept on budging through all the other dilemmas and had effectively knocked out the ones that got in its way. Last night, the kid went through the doors and spoke of—something. Something he said made all his worries forget that they wanted to torment him every breath he took for life. Something that grave needed some thinking, serious thinking. Maybe it was about the journey around the East Wing01 or something he found there was the something he had been bothered about last night... What did happen last night?

Anything in detail could be said junk by the cyborg. He just remembered the entrance hall, and bits of the corridors and halls they had gone through to get to their rooms. Unfortunately for Abel, he was not favoured by Q10. "Stupid kid..." he said to himself, still thinking of the fixtures that danced around his head and fit into certain parts of the Wing. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—of course, the objects which decorated the rooms before his and after, and those that choired an ensemble for all the rooms in the Wing which were the décor in the Wing's corridors themselves. Nothing. Nothing except for Q10 humming a completely inane but abnormally obscene sound gutting his throat of all prowess of speaking, which reverberates through the small fangs jutting out of his thin pale mouth invaded his memory. Whatever had upset him, Q10 was responsible. And, he would ignore the absurd sound that the tween had made.

"There must be something I forgot." Abel muttered to himself and rose to feel around for the door.

The doorway was huge because of heavy oak doors hinged to it. He could only open one of them with both hands, and Q10 had closed it as easily as any other door with one. Abel padded the wide arch in search of the switch. He did not know where the switch was exactly in the first place. Computer put the lights out once he was snug in the colossal bed. As it tuned out, the bratty little genius created an Artificial Intelligence (A.I.) for the Dome. He was introduced to 'her' when he was in the most unusual of circumstances to treat—at the very least, great—a guest. Abel was answering the call of nature with his own feedback, when Q10 conveniently remembered and asked Computer to remind their guests of the ten-in-the-morning meeting; he forgot to tell them this bit when he had gone all serious from before. Computer was kind enough to have a sense of humility, with an overpowering rasp of modesty, extended to humiliation—she gave what sounded like a squeak of surprise and embarrassment when her eyeball suddenly scoped the bathroom's premises. The kid had some nerve! He apparently was fond of installing his gadgets in the most unconventional of places. I don't know how that kid's a genius—either by insanity or real intellect. Abel chose the former.

"Umm..." Abel murmured, not quite sure if the A.I. was there to answer the call. Was computer really the Dome? "Computer? Are you there?"

"Yes, Sir Nightroad?" Computer said in her O01gladys-like fashion.

"Can you switch on the lights?" Abel asked.

"Certainly." Computer supplied. With that, the lights in his room when on. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you..." Abel started. "But... there is one thing..."

"What will that thing be?" she said.

"Is your master a vampire?" he asked precariously. Computer might be one of those A.I.s that take offence in something. Especially about disrespecting their creators.

"No, sir. His fangs are just there because—" Computer stopped mid-sentence.

"Because...?" he encouraged.

"The reason might be confidential. You must wait for morn, then we shall ask Sir Enigma together." she finalized. "If there is nothing more I can physically help you with, in many a term, I will take my leave from the room, so to speak..."

You may leave. Thank you." Abel smiled, dismissing the non-matter female (he thought of calling the programme "she" the night before too), still looking at the doors.

An electronic beep signalled Computer's leave. Abel kept staring at the arch and the wall space surrounding it, but he couldn't find the switch. "Sir, the switch in this case is just two claps away." He jumped a little but did as he was told. He clapped twice and the lights went out. "Thank you, Computer." Another beep and she was gone. Two more claps sounding in her wake.

He walked to the enormous bed and sat at the edge of it, facing the door. His hand was empty now, and all the thoughts and speculations he pondered while drifting in the abyss between sleep and consciousness travelled to an unknown part of his brain. They just weren't there any more. He closed his eyes and breathed in. The air inside the château-sized room was relaxing, like it was making you forget all the memories that had hurt you, scarred you. All the more, it was getting you intoxicated. Blended with the lights, the atmosphere reverberating in the room was bleeding your ears to listen for any foreign sound. But, the only sound Abel heard was a rhythmic thumping echoing in his chest that tumult for miles and miles. The light from the room seeped in the darkness and Abel saw... something. Or some things. Then, he felt he must have some sleep. Immediately.

* * *

Tres started exactly five in the morning. He sat up straight in his bed and his right eye glowed red in the blue of early mornings'. During autumn, the world was plunged into an unsteady state of daylight hours. The cyborg understood that this was an effect of the autumnal equinox, a phase in the Earth's revolution, and was unfazed by the icy mornings and dull noontimes. His body did not need to keep watch for temperatures that were flat -200K to 3000K. The upgrade had made Tres more efficient and the cyborg needed not constant attention to environmental readings and subjects of the sort. Q10 explained to him that his body was built to handle any circumstance; any substance that seeps in his exoskeleton would not affect him and be expunged. The only substance that he must avoid was cryogenic fluid. "It would fry your systems and freeze your hydraulics—it would also make your exoskeleton brittle, fragile; leaving your internal hardware unprotected and exposed. The internal mechanism is based upon light-weight materials that are sensitive to just about anything except direct foreign pressure up to 500 mega-atoms; without the exoskeleton, you're considered dead... Don't ask why I did it for you..." His exoskeleton was made up of unstable molecules that were arranged to a spongy flesh-like suit, able to stand with anything from high everything—twenty-thousand leagues under the sea and a trip to the sun. You name it.

The chilling autumn winds greeted him when he entered the balcony. He had a balcony courtesy of the massive room he got. Everything in the Dome was king-sized, but not everything had to be big in literal. The books held great lost knowledge and civilizations and languages not incorporated in Tres' software. The rooms were huge because each one was designed to house specific eras or events in pre-Armageddon. Q10 said, "Things can be learned greatly through vision alone, but even greater when you wonder about the vision's creation." He was talking about reading the books inside the rooms to know why they had had their designs and what it was all about. Yes, and Tres did wonder. The Gunslinger's 'Saloon', as it was called in the "'ol' times", was styled for the Old West. He found out that those times were referred to as the American Old West; America had long been gone in the world he now lived in, but still—here in this Dome—here lies some part of it greater than what the Vatican told. The conspiracies during the American Civil War and their prejudice have been epic for writers to draw some part of it into fiction—prizes for the noble dead, those who have consecrated their own grounds on saving that now non-existent earth.

"We cherish them." a lady from a bookshop in one of the greater newspapers from the time had commented. Maybe that gave the way to have Western as a genre. Maybe the drama that the Old West itself emanated was enough to drive the writers through and through. He read about their technology and how the young women swooned for the brave cowboys and cower before the treacherous thieves but will swoon again as the cowboys will pick them up from the dirt when 'business' was done with the 'bad men'. He wondered why the women were so stupid to fall for the barbarians—and their out-law ways. In the Vatican, or anywhere now, nobody is above the Papal Law—except in the Empire. He would not have such behaviour endangering the Cardinal and His Holiness. He would do as they do—because he did it better than they did anyway... He would shoot them down if circumstances needed without delay or mercy. He would fight for what he believed in—what he was programmed to do—protect the Cardinal from any threat, from any harm.

He has heard of Lincoln from Q10. "He's a great man." he said with his eyes down to the earth. "I have consecrated my ground for the future to remember what I did for them and the earth that I believed in..." His tone was hardly a whisper when his eyes met cold marble. The tone was of remorse and dedication. He had no such tone. He had no such rich voice of self-truth. While reading through the Great Civil War by Cameron Salista, he saw the man's name again. It intrigued him to know that he saved and lead a great deal of men and women from a falling country to a united nation. He searched some more and parts of the man's genius flashed before his eyes. "Fourscore and seven years ago..." the start of a great speech, the Gettysburg Address. He read some more about the man before finally reading the whole article. The Gettysburg Address.

All the facts that were laid down before him in the books preserved through time and fermentation of thoughts and ideas had not changed the ignition of hope for every soul. But, Tres did not have any—or so he thought. He only had a fragment of humanity in him. A fraction of a brain. Grey and cold as he was. He analysed that the man was an idealist and that he believed fervently enough in the good of the people around him and that the Great America would be united by his efforts... he could make a difference. The tug of mortal recoil from guilt and emotional retribution had enabled his mending address to surge the people's life and had them act for the Union's growth and development. He was a natural leader and a natural scholar—birthed from two uneducated farmers, he had schooled himself Law and got in the Bar after just three years. He even was better enough to be labelled as "The Most Grammatically Correct Person Who Ever Lived". Better because... he was just an ordinary Terran with limited resources, but he did more than was expected of him. Unlike Tres. He did only what he was told. Exactly what he was told.

As his thoughts surged and pierced through the biting cold that he couldn't feel: he found himself thinking about nonsense. What exactly do those things got to do with the mission he and Abel both were assigned? It would be probably known as just facts for a later on reminiscent for a logical solution to a problem... but not right now! He dismissed almost all of it save for 0O2Abe and shoot-outs.

He looked around and found that he was looking back to his Saloon. It wasn't very wooden that you could call it authentic compared to the images of the real thing. There was wood over the walls but there also was marble stretching over the walls, arching over the room, and there were river stones made to be a chimney and library at the other end from where the gigantic window met the outside of the balcony. His bed sat at the very centre of the colossal haven. It severed a hole through the mezzanine or, should we say, the second floor—level in a very elegant and curved hexagon. You couldn't tell that it was a shape if you looked at it with no interest. The marble cornered the room with a hazed black and painted the middle of the walls with a dark grey; only to be blocked by paintings from the times, creating a halo of hazed grey around the sharp golden frames. Too bad Abraham Lincoln's portrait wasn't put up there.

The floor was of wood, as well as the mezzanine. The wood was drained of colour except for the wooden yellow and natural bronze, but only the ones that plaid the lower level. The mezzanine took darker shades of mahogany and oak—a deep brown that looked to be even a deeper red. He had not yet been to the upper level. Q10 ordered that he go up there after his first night here. Tres searched the room for anything that had changed during his hibernation.

He looked at the furniture. The Vatican's fabled fixtures are not like this. They were much more grandeur and heavy with functions. The furniture and the fixtures complimented each other superbly and fashioned the room's theme but applying different factors of modern living—his bed was a king-sized four-poster with drapery, beside it was a table which stretched to the ends of the humongous bed. It had graceful sloping edges of varnished oak. The table was no ordinary one. It had several functions that even the Professor would call 'interesting'—e.g., projecting a holographic screen and laser keyboard, the counter top flips over to reveal tech tools which he had never seen before in the Professor's lab, serves several types of food ranging from the tropics to the eastern European cuisine on command (only if you have the secret password... Q10 told that to Tres to try and tempt the good lad into figuring out the password for himself—unfortunately Tres didn't even hear his delicious dark chuckle when he stuck his head inside the bath.). There were piles of science books and Western books that have been strewn by use and several e-lamps. The place was a cornucopia for the centuries before and hereafter.

"What are you musing about?" asked a figure by the right of the massive doors to Tres' bedroom.

"I was re-processing the input from the scan of the Parlour yester night," Tres answered robotically.

"I see. I also see that your vocabulary does not always contain such strict bounds from robot-issued dictionaries," Q10 stated a matter-of-factly, like he was challenging Tres' programme—_you can not take on the dictionaries for Terrans, you're just a machine._

"I am built to be adaptive of any surrounding for the mission parameters given by, from, of the Vatican."

"I see…"

"What is in your league and peripheral vision?" Tres questioned like a child asking a parent what is so funny.

"Nothing you cannot see. 'I see' is just an expression that Terrans use to state that they can understand your situation or standpoint," Q10 mused.

"Affirmative."

There was a brief silence with Tres' right red eye surveying the bedroom and blinking across the vampire-looking form of the twelve-year-old by his door.

"Status report, Q10," Tres stated.

"I am not well. You will be accompanied to the meeting hall at nine forty-five in the morning today. I shall not be there and you and Abel can talk about matters from the Vatican. I mean you no harm but there will be aids there. They are my aids and will report to me my doom if you so wish to talk about a plan for that. Any other plans will not be noted. They will be your aids as well but not in the plan of my doom. Do you understand what I am imposing?" Q10 said without batting an eye. He was dead certain of the things he wanted to go through the meeting—no planning of his doom and things a certain of it.

"I shall have nothing of destruction in these grounds. I don't like destruction—not even talking about it. This conversation has stretched my limits enough. You will not do anything stupid in my grounds."

"Affirmative," Tres stated a matter-of-factly.

"Another thing," Q10 started before leaving, his back turned to the cyborg, "you're friend should know that the _things_ in this household are delicate. Every _thing_ in this household is delicate. Even, you are delicate now that you are in this house. Fare well, Tres Iquis of Vatican."

Tres looked at his retreating form until the door was locked again in its place a moment before Q10 had managed to sneak upon the grounds of the Parlour. After the conversation and his scan of the bedroom again to make sure nothing would be sneaking up anywhere anytime soon, he pulled on newly laundered clothes—fluffed and ready for the onslaught of dirt and mounds of rubble that would clearly make their way unto it in the next few hours of daylight. He and Abel would be going footing on the grounds to check the parameter. That is if Q10 would allow their leave and still accept them back into the Dome. A thing to discuss with Abel had been made during the processing of data gathered whilst Tres dressed was a big move compared to what Abel had been doing at the exact same time Tres went out the door.

* * *

_Somebody get me out of this life!_ Abel screamed in his head.

He had been dreaming of something very… pleasing and… _Now look at the sheets!_

Abel was mortally embarrassed for one thing—he had been dreaming of something then wham! Nothing came into mind as he just stared at the sheets… not so clean sheets…

_The room hazed and I was out like a light… That's for sure… then… then… there was something in the light of my dream after that… I felt unsure and scared and… then… the dream shifted for something better… better… Lilith? Nope… Definitely not Cain… Seth? Nope… She's queen on the other side of the world… Who else could have been in the dream? I have always dreamed of things from my past but apparently this time it's not the case… _Abel mused over in his head.

Then, Tres knocked. "Father Nightroad, may I enter?"

_Shit!_ "No you may not!"

"Father Nightroad, status report," Tres stated flatly—there was something bothering the father at the other end of the door.

"Nope… Nothing… Completely and utterly safe—fine… Nothing to see in here… _in here…_" Abel's voice trailed on and died away.

"Father Nightroad, I am taking immediate action. You are not feeling well and are suffering from some stress that is clearly in your room. I will knock down your defence and come to your aid, immediately," Tres said without much of a blink because he did not have to and without so much of a thought. Father Nightroad needed assistance.

"No! Tres! NO!!! Stay where you are right now! Do not—"Abel said, the words were said in a very fast manner that they were ignored by the Gunslinger.

Then, the door had been flung open by automatic response and Gladys's voice broke, "The doors are now open for the Dome's maintenance purposes under Orders of Middle Guests."

Abel was not thinking of how he was treated as a second-class guest. He was thinking of how to hide the sheets like—right now! He flung himself towards the massive bed and curled the sheets together and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor hiding the inner most layer (or the top layer) from sight. Abel did all this in mere seconds because of adrenaline. And, he also got up after which sent him in a straight collision course with the floor.

"Father Nightroad, status report."

Abel looked up and saw Tres towering above him. He was not sure Tres could make clones of himself. "Do you have a twin brother?"

Taking that Father Nightroad was delirious Tres carried the man bridal style to his four-poster and laid him down gently. He checked the man's pulse and breathing. He also checked the exposed body parts of Nightroad to check anything unusual. Then, he went away from the now sleeping form of the man and seized the material on the floor to investigate what the priest did not want the other to see. It could be the cause of the fatigue that had Nightroad on hold for forty-seven minutes after nine in the morning. This morning was that morning, to be exact. He would be waiting for Father Nightroad for two minutes. But, the cyborg doubted that. The other priest had his ways of finding out where the food are being stocked and would devour his helping before going to the meeting hall at ten as instructed. He even disobeyed the Duchess of Milan.

What Tres saw was nothing to be worried about. Nightroad just had REM. Perfectly normal for Terrans to have. Nothing unusual that could peak interest about the priest's sudden nausea and abrupt fainting. It could be just the movement he exerted. After an REM, surely the man would tire. He stored this as a log in his memory which was now in petabytes thanks to Q10.

He searched the room for the clear scents of hormones then proceeded to gathered things here and there and left the room quite neatly with an order and a thank you had been voiced by the _occupants_ of the quarters.

* * *

"You're boyfriend's nice."

"AHHH!!!" Abel fell backwards only to get hit on the head by the massive bedpost then the massive bedside table.

"Sorry," queued in other voices. It was Gladys who spoke to him that caused his mishap.

"I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that." He lied getting into the same spot he held before he had woken up.

"You're boyfriend's nice. He fixed your room before he left. A true gentleman," piped up a voice from the bathroom—it was Gladys. The thing that frightened him earlier that day. Her(?) voice was not like her name at all—it was brusquer than Computer's.

"He's not my boyfriend! Priests are not allowed to have relationships like that!" Abel piped up, too.

"Uh-huh. And I'm Master's grandmother."

"He's not my—" Abel started menacingly.

"Yeah… I thought he was. And, he _is_," Gladys's voice chided.

_He was not going to argue with an A.I. over Tres being his boyfriend. He didn't care—wait… Why am I using 'he' to refer to myself?_ Abel thought.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Then why do you treat him like one?" Q10 asked.

"AHH!!!" Abel repeated his act again.

"What is it with you people and sneaking up on me?" Abel shouted at the top of his lungs which only made things worse.

"Father Nightroad, status report."

"I hate you all!"

* * *

"AHHH!!!" Abel fell backwards and hit his head unto the bedside table.

"Father Nightroad, status report."

Abel almost snapped his head at the speed he turned it and looked at the person who intruded his little scene of mishap on the floor.

"Wow. A snap of attention for once," Q10 drawled. He always wanted Abel to hate him every time he sees the damned kid.

"What do you want?" Abel asked remembering that he was the one _visiting_ and the _occupants_ would not want their Master being fed the floor.

"I want you out of bed," his voice croaked in reply. Apparently, he was sick.

"And you're supposed to be in one," Abel said shakily getting to his feet. Somehow, this seemed off. Something was supposed to _here_ and that was not him standing up all by himself.

"Do not bother yourself with me. I need you to go to the meeting room right now." With that he was back out the hallway striding to the right of the hall from Abel's view.

"For a guy who is sick he's quick on his feet," Abel murmured, his face planted firmly between the lumps created of his bed's mattress. "So much could not be said of me."

He sighed and went into the lavatory. He showered quickly and got his laundered clothes just like Tres had—all fluffy and warm against his skin compared to the cool respite feeling coming from the bath he had. He gathered his hair into a ponytail much like the rest of the other ponytails that people had caught him don. He fished a hazel brown ribbon from the rack of ribbons presented by Gladys. The colour attracted him; he did not know why but it let him feel safe and counted upon of not being too strict and be just himself.

The _occupants_ were in awe of the sight of a human cladding himself before them. At first, Abel thought it rude that the things were staring at him but it dawned on him that the poor A.I.s only ever saw Q10 if not seldom. There was the mirror, the chandelier or the main hub of the bedroom, Gladys, the shower cap, the tub, and the faucets. All in all, there were ten _occupants_ in his room. He wondered if Tres had any in his. Gladys already explained that the _occupants_ were all over the Dome but he couldn't exactly picture Tres talking to furniture. Sure, he would do it. But, Abel did not find the idea funny. It was odd to him because the _occupants_ were so much more _alive_ than Tres. They mingled with him out of sheer curiosity which was none of Tres' business. What the Vatican says is Law. That was fine by the other priest which was the obstacle that Abel did not like. At all.

He was checking everything before he would go out of the lavatory. Maybe he lost his underwear underneath the tub. Something like that was bound to happen to him. Gladys ushered him out of the lavatory in fear of getting him soaked with his searching of under garments. Speaking of which…

"Mister Nightroad, you're man friend is nice," Gladys chirped, evidently excited about him going about the Dome. He looked finely clipped even with his Vatican robes that day because of the help that the _occupants_ were giving him.

"Man friend?" Abel asked. He blushed faintly remembering the dream from earlier and the tint reddened as he realised that he was carried by the "man friend" Gladys is surely referring to. How silly of him to even ask who the man friend they were talking about was. Surely they would not call their Master his _man friend_.

"The one from your earlier plight with the floor."

"Oh," Abel said.

"He cleaned up some things you left askew and fixed your left bed coverings. The rest of them he handed to us for cleaning. We got it over you before you woke up. He instructed us to do so too. He really cares for you," Faucet Number One was talking to him. He named them clockwise starting from the sink.

"Oh!" Gladys said good-naturedly. "You're going to be late, Mister Nightroad. Please wait for your escort outside the bedroom. We look forward on seeing you and your man friend again."

With that he was promptly put outside and was primed before he was shut the door by Gladys and some of the _occupants_ had cheered for him. He faced the maroon wall opposite him. _Tres…_ he thought. "HE SAW THE SHEETS!!!" came the abrupt eruption of vocals from the pale lanky priest who was staring at a maroon wall.


End file.
